


strike/parry

by OnyxSphinx



Series: ianyassen high seas au [1]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: M/M, Sort Of, could be read as gen i guess but really why would you do that. they're gay for each other., high seas au, homoerotic swordfights for the win
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29852190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Or: Yassen's a pirate, Ian's a navy commodore, and gay swordfights are had.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Ian Rider
Series: ianyassen high seas au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2209212
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	strike/parry

**Author's Note:**

> i have been meaning to write a high seas au for these two for AGES so here it finally is. i might expand on this universe at some point, who knows

The sun shines brightly overhead; beating down on the deck and setting everything awash in a yellow-y glow. From his perch in the crow's nest, Yassen watches the crew buzz around bellow him like dozens of worker ants, each one fully absorbed with their own task. The wind ruffles his hair, kept shorter than that of most of the crew, and he closes his eyes for a moment, dragging in a deep breath.

"Gregorovich!" comes a call, breaking the momentary peace. "Get down here."

Yassen scowls. He's been assigned to Zeljan Kurst's ship for the duration of the dry season—Rothman wants him to keep an eye on the massive man, and make sure he's not pilfering away any of the treasure they capture when he ought to be delivering it all to Malagosto.

"Gregorovich!" comes the man's voice, more insistent now. "Rothman might not throw you into the sea for taking to long to obey, but I'm not so lenient."

Yassen heaves a sigh; remembering suddenly why he never voluntarily signs up for runs with Kurst. The man's a right bastard, as a good acquaintance of his once put it. "One moment," he calls back, and begins to descent, hanging on to the rigging, using the crossing ropes as a makeshift ladder. A few moments later, when he's only about ten feet off the deck, he lets himself drop, landing on both feet, bending his knees lightly for a moment to absorb the impact.

Straightening, he raises a brow, gazing at Kurst cooly. "Yes...sir?"

It's just enough of a backhanded blow to show his irritation; but not enough to get him in any trouble, as Kurst knows, going by his darkening expression. "We'll be on the  _ Endeavour _ in a few hours," he bites out. "I want you manning the canons."

"The  _ Endeavour? _ " Yassen raises a brow. "Do we have enough firepower to take a navy ship of that calibre?"

Kurst bares his teeth in a half-feral smile. "That's why you're here, isn't it, master strategist Gregorovich?"

That, Yassen does have to concede to, grudgingly. Part of the reasons Kurst even allowed him to be on his ship is because Yassen's the ace in his sleeve, metaphorically speaking—he has a knack for turning situations on their head, in his own favour, specifically.

He nods. "I will join the men below decks," he says, and is just about to turn on his heel when Kurst speaks again.

"I hear that Commodore Rider will be helming the _ Endeavour, _ " he says. "Perhaps you can finally get revenge for that nasty scar."

The scar in question—the result of a gun firing right next to his head—spans from his temple to the corner of his mouth, courtesy of one then-Captain Ian Rider. Yassen doesn't grimace, but it's a close thing. "It was merely a part of his job," he says, "there are no...how you say? Hard feelings about it."

That's not quite true. He spent many nights cursing the man's name while it healed. But Kurst doesn't need to know that.

The man eyes him contemplatively. "Just business," he says, and then suddenly claps a hand on Yassen's shoulder, painfully hard. His eyes are glittering unpleasantly. "A good motto for those of us in our line of work."

My _ line of work, _ Yassen carefully doesn't say,  _ it's not like you are the one firing at the enemy, holed up in your plush little cabin. _

Instead, he just jerks his head in an approximation of a nod, and, when Kurst lets him go, slips beneath the deck to where the men are prepping the cannons.

The hours pass slowly; Yassen mostly giving himself over to the mindless repetitiveness of checking each cannon after the men are done with them, and alternatingly wishing for a bottle of kvas to drown his sorrows in and wishing for some action to get going already.

The second wish finally comes true when a cannonball comes tearing through the side of the ship, killing one of the men standing not ten feet away from him. Yassen has a moment to sigh, frustrated, as he realises Kurst has probably steered them right into firing range without even trying to avoid the  _ Endeavour' _ s cannons.

Then, he's leaping into action, shouting orders to the men and desperately trying to salvage the situation. The below decks turn into a mass of sweating, swearing, soot-covered men, stinking of gunpowder and fear.

Unfortunately, there's only so much even he can do; after what feels like days, there's a shout from above. "Lay down your weapons and come above deck peacefully and you'll be allowed to keep your life!"

The voice is familiar; the way a toothache is familiar; aching and irritating. Yassen grits his teeth, but drops his weapons, save for the two daggers concealed in his boots and the knife strapped to the inside of his forearm. It never hurts to be prepared, after all.

He follows the other men above deck, squinting slightly in the harsh glare of the sunlight. It's started dipping below the horizon now, and it's nearly blinding, even when he's not looking in its direction.

Deep blue and gold military uniforms swim into a view a moment later, and Yassen almost smiles when he sees Kurst at gunpoint, courtesy of one of the lieutenants. Slightly less pleasing is the sight of Commodore Ian Rider, all done up in blue and gold, skin tanned and freckles dotting his face, otherwise unmarred, save for worry lines. How the man managed to go almost five years without a single injury, Yassen doesn't know. He chalks it up to Rider luck—Hunter, too, had the luck of the devil.

Rider's droning away about how they've broken laws and looted from innocent citizens. Yassen holds back a laugh. He'd hardly call merchant ships  _ innocent citizens, _ but then, his views don't usually line up with those of Rider's.

"...a sabre duel, for the life of your captain," Rider announces. His gaze—previously trained on Kurst—jumps to Yassen. "How about you, there, in the black?"

_ Damnit, _ Yassen thinks; and resists the urge to heave a sigh. It's very tempting. Instead he just purses his lips and steps forward. Rider eyes him appraisingly, and Yassen's skin prickles. He hates that Rider looks at him like he can save him.

"Your name?" Rider asks; all for show.

"Gregorovich," Yassen replies. "I assume I will be provided with a sabre?"

Rider's lips twist. "Aye," he agrees, turning to one of the lieutenants. "Starbright, can I borrow your sabre?"

"As if I'm going to get it back," the woman grumbles, but does as requested, handing her sabre over to Rider.

Rider offers it, hilt first, to Yassen. Yassen bites back a snort.  _ Fucking gentleman. _ He takes it, resisting the urge to pull it and leave a cut across Rider's palm. "A single round?" he asks. "Or would you prefer three?" Unspoken, the implication that he thinks it will take Rider more than one round to get in a win.

Rider grins; easygoing. "One's fine," he says.

Yassen nods; sharp and tight; and leaps forward without warning. His sabre is only just barely stopped by Rider's, who twists it up and out of the way, aiming for Yassen's shoulder.  _ Insulting. _ Yassen dances back, letting Rider overextend himself, and then strikes like a snake; almost managing to get past the other's defence.

Unfortunately, Rider recovers in the nick of time; parrying and knocking his bland off to the side.

Yassen, who hasn't had a properly matched fight in  _ years _ , nearly grins.

They fight like this for the next few minutes; evenly matched; and it's  _ thrilling; _ until, finally, Rider, tiring, accidentally leaves his guard too wide; and Yassen manages to disarm him, knocking his sabre off across the deck, the metal skittering for a few moments. He sweeps his borrowed blade up and beneath Rider's jaw; allows himself a smile.

"You had best be going," he says, and then, leaning in close enough that he can catch the musk of the other's shaving cream, murmurs, " _ Ian. _ "

He steps back, pulling the blade away; and offers it to Starbright.

Rider, a rueful smile on his lips, shakes his head. "Guess I should have expected that," he says. "Well. You're all free to roam another day, I suppose."

The lieutenant who had his gun to Kurst's head—a young boy, no more than sixteen, with blonde hair and brown eyes—pulls his gun away from Kurst's head, and follows after Rider as he disembarks back to the _ Endeavour. _

Kurst is sputtering about the indignity of it all in the background; but Yassen just watches as Rider turns, snapping off a jaunty salute, coupled with a wink, before disappearing overboard onto the  _ Endeavour. _

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


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